


whiskey sours

by cherrytart



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, Fucking Around In the Officers Mess: A Fic, M/M, Mild D/s, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27522526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrytart/pseuds/cherrytart
Summary: It is not, by any stretch, Thomas’ job to see after Terror’s first officer, but how can he help himself, really, when the Lieutenant will insist on looking so doleful, and so in need of him?Winter, 1847. Thomas Jopson is adverse to half measures.
Relationships: Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 20
Kudos: 79
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	whiskey sours

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt "nightcap" on my terror bingo card

“Have a drink, Edward.”

Lieutenant Little, just back from Erebus, looks as though he’d rather be cut in quarters. “No need, sir, I -”

Crozier ignores him. Thomas, who pours the drinks, knows that he is far enough into his cups to do so without hesitation. “Jopson, get the Lieutenant a drink, for God’s sake. It’ll warm you, Edward, if nothing else.”

Thomas does as he is bid. The Lieutenant looks chilled to the bone, and his hand shakes a little when he takes the glass, fingers knocking against Thomas’. He sips it slow, collecting himself. He’s a measured sort, this one, steady on the surface where the other two rocket back and forth like river buoys. Thomas admires this in him. If it obscures what’s underneath, that’s a point in his favour, too. Makes the rare glimpse he gets all the more precious.

That Little is handsome, too – well, this he tries not to notice. If he fails more often than he succeeds, particularly now with the Lieutenant so pensive, his cheeks red from the cold and his fine mouth set in a grim line above his whiskers, Thomas feels he ought to be given some leeway for trying, still.

As he helps the Captain prepare for bed, his mind drifts back, entirely without his permission, to the Lieutenant. His strong fingers brushing against Thomas’ when he took the glass. Those wide, shining eyes, darker than pitch, searching you out should you dare to look them dead on. He is thankful, and guilty, that the Captain is too far gone tonight to notice his distraction. Crozier is asleep on his feet, and Thomas hastens to pick up his discarded clothes and dim the lamp before he retreats. If a good night’s rest could heal what ails Crozier, well, they’d all be better off.

He heads to the laundry with the Captain’s shirt, and it is when he is on his way back, empty handed for once, that he passes the door to the officer’s mess, still ajar. Lieutenant Little has not moved from his seat by the port window. The glass of whiskey is half empty on the table, and the room smells powerfully of wet wool and soot.

Before he can ask himself what, in fact, he thinks he’s doing, Thomas slides inside and puts the door to.

“Should get you out of those wet boots, Lieutenant.” He crosses the room to Little and bends to help him off with his shoes. Little stares at him, but does not protest. It is not, by any stretch, Thomas’ job to see after Terror’s first officer, but how can he help himself, really, when the Lieutenant will insist on looking so doleful, and so in need of him? And god knows where Gibson is, this time of night.

Part of it is his own mind working at him, Thomas suspects – he can admit readily enough he has a hankering for men of Lieutenant Little’s sort, broad shouldered and serious, the sharp bite of command in their voices. And he feels for the Lieutenant, besides. Theirs is a strange fellowship, bound tightly to Crozier by chains of rank and proximity. If their orbits overlap, is it so bad that Thomas should take notice?

“There’s no need, Jopson,” Little says. Thomas looks up at him, one boot in his hand. “I mean...thank you.”

“You can be easy, sir,” Thomas says, hoping very much his voice does not betray him now, and shake. “Whole ship’s abed.” It’s true.

Little makes a rough sound, one that goes straight between Thomas’ legs, and he is thankful for the semi-darkness in the wardroom, so that the Lieutenant cannot see his face flush.

As if he has heard Thomas’ thoughts, and means to torment him, Little reaches for the nearest candle, pulling it to his side of the table. It makes a little pool of light for Thomas to see to his task, easing Little’s right leg from his boot, the leather cold in his hand. He could polish Little’s boots, if he needed, buff them to a shine without anyone the wiser.

He puts them toe to toe, heel to heel, on the rug, and looks back at Little. “Sir, would you -” He only means to ask if there is anything else Little needs, but the Lieutenant is not merely looking now but staring, tongue between his teeth, and he leans forwards suddenly. “Sir?” Thomas breathes. His collar is digging into the back of his neck from where he has to keep it bent back to look up at Little. For all the Lieutenant is stiff and cold from the outdoors, an unspeakable warmth seems to grow between them.

Little’s frown deepens. “I have wondered…”

“Sir?”

A soft snort, and Thomas sees Little’s hands curl into fists against the table before the Lieutenant speaks. “If you look at the Captain so, when you serve him. Underneath your lashes, like a little tart.”

In the silence stretched out between them, the words hang heavy. He bites his lip, quite unaffectedly, though now he thinks about it, the Lieutenant will no doubt take it as a provocation, if this is what he thinks of Thomas. It makes his skin hot, that he has not been as circumspect as he thought – that the Lieutenant has seen him looking.

In the vanishing pool of lamplight, Lieutenant Little drags a hand down his face, sighs. He has taken Thomas' lack of reply for censure. “Forgive me, Jopson. It’s been a wreck of a day. Whiskey, I...it makes me loose-lipped. I’m sure you are sick to death of drink...”

Thomas swallows. _In for a penny_ , he can’t help but decide. “I wish I would have known, sir. I’d have offered you a glass long before now.” It’s cheek, but – there’s part of him, one he keeps carefully tidied away – a part that aches to be handled roughly, spoken down to, to be put firmly in his place with the side of a boot – that wants nothing more than for Lieutenant Little to carry on just as he likes.

The Lieutenant pauses, looks at Thomas, hot eyed. Thomas shifts minutely, only for Little to tilt his head in warning. _Stay._ He lifts his hand, his fingers hovering just above Thomas’ cheek. “Would you, now?” he says. It takes all he has not to lean into the touch, for that would be to presume, surely, far too much.

Perhaps Little has no intention of laying a hand on him. Perhaps he will keep Thomas here, kneeling between his thighs, and tell him precisely what he’s good for, in the voice he wears like his Lieutenant’s coat, easily slipped on, doing a decent enough job of hiding the slight country burr behind it, but nothing so carefully maintained as Thomas own accent. A man of Little’s standing can afford to be careless with such things.

Would he be careless with Thomas?

No, Thomas does not think he would be. Little is looking at him deep, those dark eyes soft as snow-melt. He takes a slow swig from the whiskey, and sets the glass down with a clatter. “You're an uncommon malady, did you know? I find cannot think properly, all for wanting you,” he murmurs, as if to himself. Thomas tenses on his haunches, breathes inward. If he is to be told to leave, he will bear it gracefully, but God, he _wants_. Wants to be touched more than any other thing, and wants it from Little, besides.

“Remedy it, sir,” he says – cautious, he must be cautious, Little is shy by nature, and not readily given to express himself, even with the whiskey lending a hand. Perhaps – “I’ve every faith in you.”

Little almost laughs. “ _Thomas_ ,” he says, and there’s tenderness there, unlooked for, dangerous, he ought to hasten this to its conclusion but instead he stays where he is, pressed between Little’s legs, all the warm weight of him bearing down on Thomas, and he waits. “I do not have it in me to be gentle, tonight. If I should hurt you, I do not know what I…”

“Sir. You _could_ not,” he says in a rush, not because it is true – leaving aside his body, Lieutenant Little could break his heart with startling ease, he is swiftly realising – but because he will do anything to have this man in his arms. Lie, cheat, steal, he does not care, they are at the end of the world, just let him have this. Let him give the Lieutenant what he needs, what they both want. He can be that for him, take whatever he requires and beg for more besides. Little will see. Will know just how good Thomas can be.

It happens all at once. Little’s hands circle his waist, and instead of pulling Thomas up to meet him, into his lap to better get a hold of him, or pushing him face first against the growing bulge in his trousers, which Thomas would happily choke on if the Lieutenant were minded to let him, he lays the two of them down upon the rug, throwing his leg across Thomas to straddle him and catching his wrists in one rough hand, as though he fears what they might do otherwise.

He needn’t – Thomas is helpless to do anything except let loose the greedy, shameless sound that’s been building up inside him ever since the first time he felt the Lieutenant’s gaze fall on the back of his neck, and spread his legs to welcome Little between them. He tips his head backwards, encouraging, and Little presses his face to Thomas’ throat, all teeth and tongue. Thomas’ thighs are shaking. “Oh,” he murmurs, when Little rocks into him, “oh, fuck…”

“Hush, now,” Little’s hand comes up, cupping his jaw, and when their eyes catch Thomas whines again, unable to bear it, so close, too much and then Little leans down and kisses him, licks into his mouth as though to disappear there. He has never known anything like it – has had his fair share of tumbles aboard ship, but to be kissed so – Little’s thumb under his jaw, stroking, and the rough force of his mouth worrying at Thomas’ own, the trace taste of the Captain’s whiskey...even if only to silence him, it is enough to make him weak.

The ship is all but empty, but that only makes their position more dangerous. One sound and they’ll be caught. Let them catch us, Thomas thinks, tilting his head to better catch the Lieutenant’s mouth. He is dizzy with joy. They might do nothing else but kiss, he thinks, tugging at Little’s hair, the whole night through, and he’d be more than happy. It might be about the soppiest thing he’s ever thought, worse than Armitage mooning over them redcoats, but it feels true, still. Feels _real_. And here, out in the blue ice and biting wind where nothing feels as it should, real is something to be grabbed onto with both hands.

With Little atop him he is warm, warm, gloriously warm, not least in the heavy pulse of blood in his cock, trapped under layers of fabric and the delicious friction of the Lieutenant’s movements. There’s the empty ache behind too, but he doesn’t think too much on that – no time, and there’s no telling if the Lieutenant, if Edward, is a man to go that far.

 _Edward_. Oh, if he could...but he will not think of that, either. He wishes he could not think at all, could shut his eyes and let himself float wherever this will take him, but he is pinned as the ships are by the ice, the exacting press of Little’s body against his all there is to hold him. His boot heels scrape against the deck as Little drags his mouth over Thomas’ skin, into the gap between his neck and collar. When Thomas gasps he sits back, looks down at him with those dark eyes, and it is all Thomas can do to meet them, let them set him on fire anew.

Little’s hand comes down between Thomas’ legs, sure as you like, and works the buttons free on his placket. He does not stop watching Thomas all the while, head crooked slightly to the side, his tongue between his teeth again as he draws Thomas’ prick out and cups it in one big hand, as if he were making sure to get things exactly right. Thomas, who is just as adverse to half measures, rocks against his Lieutenant’s grip.

“Look at that,” Little murmurs, his thumb moving over the head of Thomas’ prick, gathering the wetness there. “Look at you, desperate for it...”

 _For you_ , he wants to say. _Always and only for you._ He makes a choking sound around the words to smother them, made easier by the unerring tug of Little’s hand on his yard. Thomas scrabbles his legs again – wants to get up, to get his own hand in, he can see the length of Little’s own cock pressing thick and insistent against his uniform trousers.

“Let me,” he pleads, catching Little’s eye again. He reaches out so he won’t be mistaken, strokes Edward’s cock as tenderly as he can.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Little half coos at him, his lashes casting long shadows on his cheeks. _Sweetheart_. Oh, this was a terrible idea, truly. How is he to act after this, the Lieutenant saying such things to him, and looking in such a way? His prick twitches in Little’s hand, all blood and need.

“No,” Little murmurs, and takes Thomas’ questing hand in his, pressing it back against the deck. Ignores his whines, simply leans over and kisses him quiet, other hand still pulling him off in slow aching strokes. “You can spend right here, I think, all over yourself, and then I’m going to take you to my cabin -” he breaks off, huffing out a wet sound as Thomas twists and arches beneath him “- and we’ll see if you can come again on my cock.”

“Sir, we can’t…” It’s a feeble protest and he knows it – he would let Lieutenant Little do anything to him. “If someone hears -”

“You shall have to be very quiet, then, my darling. Could you, for me?” Little’s voice is soft against his skin. To be his darling – Thomas would like nothing more. Little gentles him with broad strokes of his free hand down Thomas ribs, and he has no quarter now but to squirm beneath the Lieutenant’s touch, and oh, he would be so easy to love, this man who seems to know exactly what Thomas needs.

He makes a wretched sound when he comes, Little folded over him, coaxing him through it with kisses and whispers, Thomas’ own handkerchief, hastily proffered, in hand to clear away the mess. He tucks him away with the greatest care, does up the buttons on Thomas’s trousers and his own waistcoat. Presses his forehead to Thomas’ - doesn’t kiss him, just holds the two of them there, skin to skin.

“Sir…” His voice sounds ragged, desperate. He is spent, and still he wants more. “Did you mean that? Will you have me? I...you’ll think me quite wanton, but I’m burning up for it.”

Little pulls back, sits upright. Swallows. Nods. His hair is ruffled, quite fetching. Tom holds out his hand, meaning for Little to help him up. The Lieutenant bends and kisses it, cradles it in both his own. “I’ve burned for you long before now – I believe I am quite mad for you, Thomas.”

Nobody has ever kissed his hand before. But then again, nobody has ever frigged him to completion on the wardroom carpet, either, nor cleaned him up so tenderly after the act. He reaches out to cup Little’s face, the scratch of his whiskers against Thomas’ palm lighting a fever all through him again. “Lieutenant,” he whispers, testing his legs against the ground – they seem unlikely to get him far, so thoroughly has he been seen to. “You may well have to carry me.”


End file.
